


If you can't fix what's broken...

by solitary_mushroom



Series: As The World Fell [1]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: F/F, Gen, Groundhog Day AU, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-20 11:56:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4786466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitary_mushroom/pseuds/solitary_mushroom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Toast begins to lose her grip on reality as the journey constantly repeats itself</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Black Matter

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [So I Heard You Like Timeloops - the Fury Road Groundhog Day AU tumblrfic/headcanon collection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4764635) by [bonehandledknife (ladywinter)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladywinter/pseuds/bonehandledknife), [bookwyrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookwyrm/pseuds/bookwyrm), [Primarybufferpanel (ArwenLune)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenLune/pseuds/Primarybufferpanel). 



It’s like waking into a dream. There’s a hazy moment when you believe you’ve made it out and you’re safe. You become aware of the points of contact: your cheek resting on something cold and metal, your leg pressed up against another warm body, someone’s fingers clasped between yours. They give a gentle squeeze. If this is safe, why is there a sense of dread creeping into your stomach? You open your eyes to assess the danger but discover they were already open. Of course – it’s pitch black in the tanker. The second awakening feels much colder, an icy shower that sharpens the mind and trickles down the spine. 

You remember everything.

 

* * *

 

The tanker rocks slightly as it touches down. Toast hears the familiar collective intake of breath and allows her head to roll against the wall as her companions brace themselves. Then there’s the gasp – presumably Cheedo – and Toast fails to stifle a laugh. The Dag is probably giving her a dirty look right now and Cheedo will be looking wounded but that little gasp was the perfect understatement for how Toast was feeling. They’d gotten further than ever before and it had all felt so promising but they’d been overrun and Cheedo had caught a stray bullet. She’d seen them all die so many times. All except Angharad, Toast appreciated that she had been spared that much so far. 

She tunes out the War Boys’ rallying cries by turning her thoughts to more pressing matters: what should be done differently this time? They’d gotten as far as the Rock Riders’ territory but there were too many of them with the Wasteland Wanderer riding shotgun, Furiosa would have to let him take the wheel and hope he’s a better driver than a marksman if they were to have any chance of escaping. Intrusive images put a stop to her observations. Toast flinches as she hears the fatal shot and sees Cheedo convulsing in The Dag’s arms. It feels louder and more vivid in her head. She screws up her eyes and presses her palms to her ears but it’s no use. She digs her nails into the back of her skull as if to claw out the memories. Angharad must have noticed her distress; the sound of limbs being awkwardly untangled brings Toast back to the present. She shakes her head to dislodge the remaining threads that cling to that memory, threatening to show it all again, and leans into the hand that now cups her cheek.

‘Whatever happens, we’re going to the Green Place’

She says it every time but it still makes Toast smile; Angharad’s unwavering hope guides her out of the dark corners of her scarred mind. She sees her burden as a blessing again, though still a heavy one, and dares to believe that this time she’ll get it right.

Outside, Joe’s speech comes to an end. The War Rig departs; Toast begins to count. She can hear Capable telling Cheedo a story; The Dag is being very quiet, she’s good at that. It’s possible that she’s sleeping but equally likely that she is listening, saving her energy whilst assessing the situation should she need to take action. She’s loaded like a spring. There had been times, before Furiosa had perfected the starting sequence, when her sisters had been dragged from their hiding place, that she’d seen The Dag snap. She’d pounced on one of their captors, her long limbs providing purchase on his stocky body, and bit and scratched until he lost his balance. He’d fallen face first onto the ground and she’d smashed his head against it again and again. His crew members had come to the rescue too late, it had all happened so fast. They’d tackled her to the ground but she was strong. Angharad and Capable had pulled at the War Boys piling on top of her to allow her enough leeway to get a chokehold on one of them. Cheedo had sought shelter underneath the tanker; the boys were too preoccupied to notice her shatter the skulls that decorated it and throw the hidden gun to Toast. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen this ending and there was no point in prolonging it. She’d caught Furiosa’s eye; the look of defiant anger replaced by the weariness of repeated loss. It was the look of someone who had succumbed to a truth they had fought vehemently to deny. You can’t save everyone. Toast allowed the gun to be snatched from her hand and held Furiosa’s gaze as The Dag was put down. She jerks her head away from the echo of the gunshot. The War Rig makes its perfectly timed left turn; Furiosa probably counts too.

She leans against Angharad who wraps an arm around her shoulder, allowing her to rest her forehead against her cheek. She bends one leg so her knee is slightly touching the swollen belly and moves a hand to stroke the small of Angharad’s back. Here, in the darkness of the tanker, in the safety of Angharad’s acknowledgement, she allows the tears to stream down her face. She doesn’t make a sound until the baby kicks. Toast feels the smile that forms on Angharad’s mouth and moves her hand to the bump. Their hands meet and they interlock their fingers as they giggle. Angharad strokes the nape of Toast’s neck with her thumb and pulls her closer. Toast’s lips brush against her collarbone and she kisses it softly. She breathes in deeply, focusing on the scent of Angharad’s skin amidst their oily surroundings. She almost loses count but right on time, she hears shouting from above. The Buzzards are on their way.


	2. Fang It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's getting harder to tell past from present from times that never made it into existance

Furiosa sounds the horn. Toast takes it as her cue to wrap her shawl around a bar of one of the produce shelves, and ties the ends together.  
‘Hold onto something’ she warns the others.

She puts her back against the shelves and pulls Angharad between her outstretched legs, providing a barrier against the uncomfortable metal bars and rough ropes that secure the goods. After grabbing a rope herself, she puts the improvised handle into Angharad’s hand and wraps her legs and spare arm around her for greater stability. Toast worries Furiosa hasn’t turned in time to avoid the trap but the War Rig makes a sharp right – sharper than usual. It’s easy to forget the parts you always get right when you’re so focused on figuring out what you did wrong. Toast slams her head back against the shelf, startled by the screams of the time they were caught out by the tripwire trap. She remembers the pain and the sobbing after the tanker had stopped rolling and the shock had worn off; the way the light had shone through the bashed-in door illuminating Capable’s broken body cradled in Angharad’s arms. She doesn’t want to remember. She can’t tell if the explosions are real or part of another memory come back to haunt her. She bites down hard on her lip to give herself something to focus on and then there is silence. She feels calm but it’s an uneasy calm; there’s something she’s supposed to do but she’d have to exert herself to recall it. It feels nice to exist without purpose. Her world is pulsating; enclosing and shrinking with each muffled beat. As the space around her is erased, her distressing thoughts are obscured by a layer of static that slowly builds, filling her mind and resonating in her bones. Her whole body is humming as she floats into a void of weightless tranquillity – the empty space between her current reality and her past. She doesn’t want to leave this place but someone is calling her name.

‘Toast?’

A high-pitched whine pulls her out of her trance and an explosion brings her crashing back to the most recent present. She panics – was that the first or second Spiked Jalopie? The roar of the flamethrower being used up top answers her question by announcing the arrival of the Buzzard Excavator. The temperature in the tanker rises and Toast remembers the heat of the fuel pod exploding – had she died that time? She tastes the tang of heated metal on her tongue as the heavy air starts to clog her mouth and nose. She takes deeper breaths but it’s not enough to get past the lump that’s formed in her throat. Fear is rising in her chest, she clenches her jaw to prevent it from screaming its way out; only a whimper escapes. Desperation takes hold, tightening around her lungs.

‘Toast, can you hear me? Are you ok?’

Toast tries to speak, the words form in her mouth but fail to express themselves. Someone is tightening something around her hand, she closes her fingers around it and recognises the softness of her shawl. She reaches out to the departing Angharad, her fingers just manage to brush against her wrist as she makes her way to the door. The War Boys are shouting again; bearing witness to a tragic act made glorious by desperate men and mediocre gods. Light floods the tanker as the door slides open, Toast tries to focus on the women that share her temporary cage – some barely noticeable scrapes and bruises but nothing compared to the first few times. After experimenting with various routes, despite the tripwire, their current course had been the most successful. Failed attempts lead them into similar traps that had either slowed them down enough for Joe’s Carmada to catch up, or resulted in total devastation to both the rig and her stolen cargo. The door slides shut as the tanker buckles, liquid seeps then gushes through the cracked baffles, crates break free from their restraints and tumble towards the stowaways. Toast instinctively attempts to cover her head before realising that her hand is attached to the sturdy shelves – a fractured reality is a lot harder to piece together in the dark.

A large explosion shakes the tanker and marks the end of the Buzzards’ pursuit. Toast returns her face to her hands, she searches for something to occupy her thoughts before the unwelcome ones fill the vacancy. She remembers when time had done this before. Her mother had warned her it could happen; it was something that all children of the tribe were prepared for from a young age. The day she had arrived at the Citadel had actually lasted at least 17 before they got it right – although there was no more ‘they’ by the time the vehicle came to a halt and she had been firmly directed to the lift. The Elders of the Chrono Conductors had taught her the importance of counting; timing was everything – if you could map the course of an approaching party, it would stay the same until it was interrupted by someone who experienced the time shifts. Unfortunately, the party the tribe interrupted was on a supply run from Bullet Farm. That day she also learnt the value of sacrifice. Lives served purposes and restarts occurred when lives ended too soon, surviving beyond that was fortunate but not necessary. The ultimate purpose was unknown, though some Seers had their predictions (and some predictions had been known to come true). Though tribe members who gave their lives keeping time in check were honoured in death, there wasn’t the same glamour that the War Boys associated with self-sacrifice. The tribe saw the War Boy’s indulgence in self-destruction as something to be pitied – disregarding the permanence of death whilst relishing the act. Toast found it a lot harder to pity them, considering what they’d taken, and felt a sudden burst of rage contort her face. She doesn’t want to think about what was taken because she has no outlet for pain and anger – nothing can bring them back. As the battle between misdirected anger and self-pity plays out in her weary mind, a different battle is raging outside the rig; the Badlands aren’t done with them yet.

Toast feels the hair on the back of her neck stand on end – the reliability of nature in these situations is a welcome change from the usually volatile Wasteland. The storm pounds at the Wasteland floor, sucking up the resulting plumes into spiraling columns and violently spraying sand against the tanker. The rig swerves from side to side, ridding them of any remaining War Boys too foolhardy to admit defeat, their Kamikaze screams indistinguishable from the roar of the relentless wind. Furiosa rids them of their final pursuer and continues into the formidable storm. With the wind rocking her metal cradle and the tempest orchestrating a Wasteland lullaby, Toast slips back into the amniotic void.


End file.
